


This Time Around

by Sparkle_Free



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-22
Updated: 2010-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:57:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparkle_Free/pseuds/Sparkle_Free
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson and Lestrade are both infatuated with Holmes; when a case goes wrong, they must learn to get along to put the detective back together again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Lestrade sat on the settee across from them, eyes darting between the two of them before focusing on Holmes exclusively. Having just recounted the details of a jewelry theft, he waited anxiously for Holmes to come to his conclusions. Watson, for his part, tried not to glare too much but instead focus on the case at hand.

He, of course, failed miserably.

Holmes was lounging in his chair, eyes nearly shut as his brilliant mind turned over the details of the case. To a casual observer he would have looked bored, but Watson knew better. It was a fascinating case, he thought bitterly. The kind that had could keep Holmes from resorting to the needle, at least for now. He should have been ecstatic. An ornate pearl necklace had been stolen from a museum, no signs of entry or exit that the police could discern. The owners didn't notice anything strange. The pearls were there in the evening and in the morning, they had vanished without a trace.

So why did _Lestrade_ of all people have to be the one to bring it to his attention? Lestrade, who was currently leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, eyes roaming his friend's face in a way that made his blood boil. It wasn't that he had some sort of claim on Holmes; quite the opposite, in fact. But he couldn't help but feel that if someone deserved to have a claim on him, surely it would be his Watson, wouldn't it?

Watson leaned on the arm of his chair, chin resting on his thumb as he glared at Lestrade bitterly. Holmes pressed a finger to his lips, clearly having come to some conclusion that he would no doubt keep them in the dark about as long as possible. Lestrade licked his lips, unconsciously leaning forward farther. Watson slapped his hand on the arm of his chair and opened his mouth to snap at the man when suddenly Holmes rose to his feet with a cat like grace and a flourish of his hand, drawing all attention to him once more.

"Excellent work, Lestrade," he said offhand as he moved to the door. Lestrade puffed up and shot him a superior look. Drawing back in his chair, Watson muttered darkly. "Now, we shall examine the crime scene to see what _we_ can find," he said as he pulled on his jacket. Now it was Watson's turn to smile triumphantly at Lestrade, who rolled his eyes. "Watson."

"Yes, Holmes?"

"Pack a bag. Three days should do."

"Yes Holmes." He moved to Holmes' room first, contenting himself with the thought that Lestrade, at least, would never be trusted with such an intimate action. He found a carpetbag under the bed and surveyed his friend's wardrobe critically. He could hear Lestrade trying to draw Holmes into a conversation in the sitting room, but from the terse sound of Holmes' voice he could only assume he was failing. He smiled at that. He selected three of his friends finest suits and a traveling cloak and hurried to his own room. Barely paying attention, he threw the first things he saw into his bag and returned to the sitting room. He dropped his bag beside Holmes' and lifted the traveling cloak. Holmes shrugged into it, eyes far away in thought. Watson stepped closer and buttoned it, hands lingering and smoothing it over his shoulders. Lestrade cleared his throat pointedly behind him and Holmes shook himself. Watson stepped back reluctantly.

"Now," Holmes declared, "Let us be off. Time is of the essence."

They carried their bags down the stairs and Holmes stepped forward to hail a cab. A hansom stopped, and Holmes climbed in without hesitation. Watson started to step up when a sharp tug on the back of his jacket caused him to stumble. Lestrade swiftly swung up into the open seat and shot him a smug look.

"You'll have to take the next one, good fellow," Holmes said. He opened his mouth to protest, but Holmes just tapped the ceiling with his walking stick and they were off, Lestrade's fingers wagging triumphantly at him around the edge of the hansom.

\-----

Holmes led the way into the country inn, Watson and Lestrade trailing closely behind him carrying the luggage. It was a dingy little place, with a small bar and dining area through a doorway to their right. The air was stagnant and smokey, and Watson blinked his eyes rapidly to try and clear them. Luckily, living with Holmes, he had grown accustomed to such atmosphere. Holmes approached the front desk.

"We've only got two rooms available," the man at the desk said immediately. Lestrade and Watson immediately turned to glare heatedly at each other from where they stood behind Holmes. "They're double bedded," the man added. They both deflated slightly, but still held each other's gaze, determined.

"That will do," Holmes agreed. He paid the man and had their luggage sent on, oblivious to the heated stares behind him.

"Well, I'm certain Mr. Holmes and I will have quite a few things to discuss about the case, doctor, I'm sure you understand -" Lestrade began.

"Holmes and I are used to rooming with each other, surely we'd all be more comfortable -"

"Enough," Holmes interrupted them. "We can discuss sleeping arrangements later. For now, let us make our way to the museum."

The carriage ride was an uncomfortable affair, as Holmes rattled off details of the case and Lestrade glared daggers at Watson from the seat across from them. Before the carriage had even stopped completely Holmes was out the door, bounding across the yard toward the building. Lestrade followed, and Watson delayed just long enough to pay the cabman.

"Go inside," Holmes told them the instant he'd caught up. "Watson, look for footprints, markings on the walls in the room in question and in the hallway."

"Of course, Holmes." Holmes turned, pulling his magnifying glass from his pocket and heading toward the window. Watson approached the door, Lestrade at his side. Lestrade stopped him with a hand on his arm just outside the museum door and held up a coin wordlessly between them.

"Heads," Watson said flatly. Lestrade flipped it in the air and caught it, slapping it down on the back of his hand. They both leaned over to look as he drew his other hand away.

"What are the two of you doing?" Holmes called angrily. Lestrade shot him a lightning-quick grin and darted through the doorway. Watson shook his head.

"_Damn_ it," he sighed. It wasn't that he'd never roomed with Holmes before on trips, but he'd been dearly hoping to deprive Lestrade of the experience. Then again, perhaps Holmes would need to do some chemical work and blow something up in the middle of the night. The thought cheered him as he followed Lestrade inside.

Watson mentally cataloged every dip in the carpet, trying to find some clue that Holmes could use. It had already been fairly well trampled by the police and owners, however, and he soon gave it up as a lost cause and began examining the walls. He noticed Lestrade on the other side of the hall doing the same. At first, he wanted to remind Lestrade that _he_ had been given the job, but he held his tongue. Two people could get the job done faster, after all, and he was too professional to let their feud get in the way of their work. Finding nothing, they proceeded to the room the pearls had been housed in. Holmes joined them shortly.

"Lestrade," he said as he entered. The inspector turned to him expectantly. "When you informed me that nothing had been found underneath the window, I naturally assumed that someone had, in fact, searched around the window."

Lestrade stammered for a moment, then glowered at him. "It's in the report," he said, wringing his hands slightly. "'No footprints were seen approaching on the ground beneath the window.' Really, Mr. Holmes, what are you getting at?"

"Merely that when one _states_ they have searched around the window, they are giving the implication that they _searched around the window,_" he pointed through the window pane. Both Lestrade and Watson crowded nearer and peered out: a smudge of dried mud clung to the outside window sill. Lestrade closed his eyes and groaned while Watson chuckled to himself.

"Thus, we have determined the method of entry," Holmes muttered to himself. He shooed them back a step farther and stepped forward to examine the lock carefully. As far as Watson could see it did not look forced at all. He sighed and slumped into a chair to wait. Lestrade settled in across from him, and they contented themselves with watching the man work in somewhat companionable silence.

It was well into the afternoon when they stepped outside again. Holmes looked around as he pulled his gloves on. "Lestrade, where did your men find the carriage tracks?"

"Over here, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade took his elbow and guided him toward the edge of the yard. Watson trailed behind them slightly, swinging his walking stick more than necessary. Lestrade pointed with his free hand and Holmes turned to look. It only took an instant to hook the end around one of his ankles and Lestrade tumbled to the ground, his arm wrenched away from Holmes. Watson drew his stick back hurriedly and leaned to offer a hand to the inspector.

"What the devil happened?" Holmes asked, startled.

Lestrade gripped his hand rather harder than needed and let Watson pull him to his feet. "Hole in the ground, that's all," Lestrade said tightly, color high in his cheeks. "Didn't see it."

"You should be more careful," Watson said seriously.

"Indeed," Holmes said dryly, lips twitching. Watson couldn't help but smile at him as Lestrade stalked off, embarrassed.

\-----

It was dark when they returned to the inn, Watson and Lestrade both flagging slightly with hunger and exhaustion. Holmes threw open the door to the first of their rooms - where their luggage had been deposited by the staff - room 112, and lead the way inside. Watson was pleased to see a tray on the sideboard, and he immediately crossed and lifted the pot of tea. Lestrade approached behind him and absently plucked the pot out of his fingers and began preparing their cups.

"What I can't stop wondering," he mussed, "Is why our thief took the pearls and not the diamond."

"_That's_ what you're concerned with? Not how he managed to get in and out unnoticed?"

"Why go to the trouble and leave the most valuable piece behind?" Lestrade asked, handing him two cups of tea. Watson pondered this as he crossed to the table where Holmes was sitting and handed him one. Holmes took a drink and choked. Sputtering, he spit the tea back into his cup and looked at Watson quizzically.

"What _is_ this, Watson?" Baffled, Watson sniffed at his own cup and recoiled. It smelled putrid.

"Here, try a cup of mine, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade brushed past him and handed Holmes a fresh cup, which he accepted gratefully. Watson's mouth dropped open. Holmes took a sip of the fresh tea and shot Lestrade a pleased look before he turned back to the case notes spread in front of him. Lestrade smirked at him and he huffed.

"Don't you want to move your things into your room, doctor?" Lestrade asked innocently.

Holmes barely looked up. "Ah, decided already, have you? Good. No need to waste more time. Now, in the morning I believe we'll -" he was cut off by Watson's stomach growling. Holmes looked up, startled, as Watson placed a hand over his stomach and blushed. "Oh, my good man, you must be starving!" Holmes exclaimed. "You really should have said something earlier -"

"I did."

"Several times," Lestrade added.

"- go down to the dining hall at once, both of you," Holmes told them. Lestrade started to protest, but his stomach chose that moment to complain as well.

"Alright then," he pushed himself to his feet and stretched. "Won't you join us?" he asked. Holmes just waved him off impatiently. Lestrade turned to look at Watson, who merely shrugged and led the way out of the room.

They found a table and ordered their meals quickly. Watson scanned the dining room, trying to ignore the tense silence that fell over them. He almost missed the days before they'd each inadvertently discovered how the other felt about the eccentric detective. He wouldn't have called them _friends_, but they at least were able to go for a bite to eat companionably when the situation called for it. Their meals arrived, and they finally had to face each other. They ate silently for most of their meal.

"I can't believe they missed that smudge," Lestrade suddenly admitted with a chuckle.

"Don't take it too hard. Holmes is brilliant," Watson said as he pushed his plate away. "He notices everything."

"Not everything." There was another tense silence.

"Apparently not," Watson muttered. He looked around the room again and noticed a dart board in the corner.

"Darts?" he asked. Lestrade nodded, rolling up his sleeves. Watson felt at least a little mollified that they were still comfortable wielding sharp objects near each other. He ordered drinks while Lestrade fetched the darts. They relocated to a small table near the board.

"Do you think this will come to blows, then?" Lestrade asked casually, taking aim. Watson didn't need to ask what he was referring to, though it made him slightly uncomfortable that the man felt the need to ask. Lestrade threw the darts expertly, eyes never leaving the board. Watson leaned on the edge of their table, collar undone, nursing his drink.

"Heavens no, I don't see why it would come to that," he said just as casually. Certainly, he would not give up, but he had no desire to seriously injure the man, after all. Lestrade pulled the darts out of the board and handed them to him, sliding into his own seat and taking a long drink. Watson stood and threw the darts one by one, glancing at Lestrade between each throw. He didn't have the other man's accuracy, but Lestrade was looking around the room, disinterested. Watson walked to the board and pulled out the darts and held them out where he stood, clearing his throat to get his companion's attention. Lestrade pushed himself to his feet and tried to cross to him. His eyes widened as he stumbled back and landed hard in his chair. He braced himself on the table. Watson crossed to him and grinned.

"Good night, Inspector," he said cheerfully. "I'll send the owner round to help you off to bed. Room 113, wasn't it?" Ignoring Lestrade's glare, he spun on his heel and walked toward the door, whistling. He tossed a shilling at the bartender on his way out, gesturing over his shoulder.

"Room 113, if you please," he called. The man nodded.

Holmes looked surprised when he swung open the door and walked inside, still smiling to himself.

"Lestrade was exhausted," he explained. "He decided to take the other room after all." Holmes shot him a puzzled look and he attempted to school his features. Just then, a man in the hallway cursed breathlessly as something heavy scraped past their door. Holmes perked up curiously as the door to the next room banged open.

"Have you had any breakthroughs, my dear fellow?" he said hastily. He moved to sit next to Holmes on his bed, slightly too close to be proper. Living together offered many perks indeed, and he pressed his advantage whenever possible.

"Perhaps. Lestrade was acting peculiar today, was he not?"

Watson shifted uncomfortably. "No more peculiar than usual," he said. Holmes turned and fixed him with a look. It always made him feel a bit like a bug under a microscope when he did so, and he cleared his throat. "Perhaps he's feeling ill," he suggested.

"In that case one would think he'd prefer _your_ company to mine." A thrill of panic shot through him.

"I... owe him five pounds," he said quickly.

"Lost at cards?" Holmes said, sounding amused. Watson smiled sheepishly at him.

"Yes, that's exactly it."

Holmes chuckled. "Do I need to start locking up your pocket money, too?"

"Of course not," Watson scoffed. "There's no harm in a friendly game of cards every now and then." Holmes just 'hmm'ed, still smiling at him. He moved to sit propped up against the headboard and feeling daring, Watson mimicked the posture next to him, shoulder to shoulder. Holmes pulled out his pipe and lit it, lost in thought. Watson leaned over just enough to grab his bag and pulled out a novel to pretend to read, and they passed the next few hours in companionable silence.

"I'm going out," Holmes suddenly declared. Watson started and looked at his pocket watch.

"At 11:30? Where on earth could you be going?"

But Holmes had already risen and crossed the room and began to slip on his shoes. "Don't wait up," he called over his shoulder. He heard the key rattle in the door, then he was gone.

"Easier said than done," Watson sighed. He laid slid down on the bed until he was laying fully, not bothering to move to the one Holmes hadn't claimed. He'd have to warn Lestrade, he reflected. They _had_ been rather reckless that day, after all.

He must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next time he opened his eyes Holmes was sitting on the edge of the bed, shaking his shoulder briskly. He sat up quickly and blushed, realizing he must have fallen asleep in Holmes' bed the night before. The other bed didn't appear to be slept in, however, so the odds were good that the detective had been out all night. Yawning, he rubbed his hands over his face.

"What is it?" he grumbled.

"The diamond has disappeared."

"What?" he dropped his hands and stared at Holmes.

"The details are the same. No new footprints. No signs of forced entry."

"But... that doesn't make any sense! Why go back? Why not just take it in the first place?"

"I haven't any answers yet. We have only just received a telegram from the estate," Holmes replied. "We must get there before the police this time in hopes of salvaging our evidence. Get dressed and meet me downstairs." He hurried from the room before Watson could reply. As he dressed, he heard rapping on the door next to him and hushed voices.

By the time he made his way down the stairs, Holmes and Lestrade were already waiting by the door. Holmes was tapping his foot impatiently, while Lestrade was slumped against the wall, one hand pressed over his eyes and massaging his temple. They both looked up as he approached. Wordlessly, he crossed to Lestrade and handed him the glass he was holding. Lestrade nodded once and drank it down.

"You'll be fine within the hour," he told him. Holmes glanced between them and his look of annoyance deepened. He swept passed them and out the door without another word. Watson took the glass and set it on the front desk and they hurried outside.

It was still nearly pitch black outside, Watson noted as they climbed into the carriage. "Where did you go last night?" he asked Holmes. Lestrade was leaning forward, already recovered enough to smirk as he shifted to rest his elbows on his knees and his leg pressed against Holmes'.

"The carriage presumably used in the original burglary had a damaged wheel; it left a distinct jagged imprint in every rotation." He waved his finger in the air as though drawing the print. "I resolved to check local cabs for hire in the area in hopes of finding one with a matching anomaly."

Watson yawned. "Ah," he said, nodding. He stretched his legs out and kicked Lestrade in the shin. Cursing, Lestrade shifted. "Sorry, old boy, muscle spasm."

Holmes looked annoyed. Watson looked out the window and tried not to drift off.

Soon, they were standing outside the museum, waiting tensely. Watson felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he looked around. "Holmes," he whispered, but he immediately felt foolish. He cleared his throat and said in a normal tone, "Why in the world would they send a telegram so early? Who was checking up on the diamond in the middle of the night?"

The door swung open just as Holmes turned to answer him. The curator stood just inside, his eyes wide, face pale. "Gentlemen, thank you for coming again so quickly," he looked nervously from Lestrade to Watson.

"Think nothing of it. Let us examine the scene of the crime once more," Holmes stepped around the man smoothly and walked down the hall. Watson and Lestrade moved to follow, but the curator stepped in their way, staring up at them with large, watery eyes.

"Gentlemen, if I may have a word." Watson looked up; Holmes was almost at the door, and for some reason fear surged through him. He glanced at Lestrade, who took one look at him and wordlessly pushed the man out of the way. They hurried down the hall.

The curator's shout caused Holmes to look over his shoulder just as he opened the door. "Honestly, what has gotten into the two of -" there was movement in the doorway behind him. Before either man could react, something large struck Holmes over the back of the head and he slumped to the ground, unconscious.


	2. Chapter 2

Watson lifted his cane and rushed inside, Lestrade immediately behind him. It was lucky, he supposed, that their attackers seemed just as surprised as they were to have company. He stepped over his friend's unconscious form and caught his attacker in the sternum with the end of his cane before he could even react; Lestrade brushed past him and out of his line of sight, revolver in hand.

A second man rushed at him before he could get a good handle on the situation. For a moment he was lost, his military reflexes taking over. He watched, detached, as the second man's head shattered the window and he slumped in the frame, unconscious or dead. Watson spun around and took in the room.

There were three more still standing. Lestrade was cornered by two in the far corner; another man lay prone at his feet, blood flowing freely from the back of his head. The third was eying Watson, revolver drawn.

"Drop it," he growled, and Watson realized with a shock of amusement that an armed gunman was telling him to drop his cane. A shot rang out from the far corner, and he turned, heart in his throat.

Lestrade had fired on one of his attackers. The other dived at him, gripping the gun in his hand. Watson darted forward, heart still pounding madly, but fell to his knees as the man who'd been watching him grasped him and wrenched his cane out of his hands. He tried desperately to keep an eye on Lestrade as the other man was forced to the ground, but a sharp pain erupted in his skull and he knew no more.

\-----

The throbbing in the back of his head was the first thing he noticed upon waking; the cold metal around his wrists was the second. He was on the floor, seated against a wall, his head lolled against his chest. The smell of mildew stung his nostrils. Cautiously, he opened one eye and looked around.

It looked like a cellar, though very poorly kept. A candle burned near the door, but the room was small enough that it was illuminated in it's entirety. The floor was damp enough to wet the seat of his pants, and dark patches of mold grew in the corners. He rolled his head to the other side carefully, wincing. Lestrade sat next to him on this side. His eyes were wide, breathing barely controlled.

"Where are we?" Watson whispered.

"Still in the museum," he muttered.

"Where is Holmes?" a sick feeling of fear was forming in his gut.

Lestrade swallowed and looked away. "He's still up there. After they knocked you out, I had all three of them on me, you see, I tried to stop them, but -"

"Lestrade," Watson interrupted him. Panic was growing in him at every word Lestrade said, the implications of what they might have lured Holmes here for. He fought it down, trying to think rationally. "There's nothing you could have done." Watson braced his cuffed wrists on the ground in front of him and rose unsteadily to his feet. He turned and offered a hand to Lestrade who took it, wide-eyed.

"I've tried the door, it won't budge," he said as Watson pulled him to his feet.

"Together, then." It was an old wooden door, ill-fitting in it's frame. Only the lock was new; determined, he ran his hands over the door, trying to find where the wood might be weakest.

"Wait," Lestrade put a hand on his arm to stop him. A flash of anger tore through him; he shook him off violently and glared.

"No," he hissed. "What do you think they're doing to him up there? He could be dead already!" Lestrade lifted his cuffed wrists and twisted them. Watson exhaled deeply. He was right of course. They could hardly overtake Holmes' captors with their hands bound.

"Lock picks?" Lestrade asked.

Watson sighed. "Holmes carries them," he said finally. He cast around the room desperately, but he could see nothing that would help. Lestrade set about tearing through the small cabinets that sat against the far wall. Watson's mind whirled; what would Holmes do, if he were here? He rattled his cuffs as he looked, sliding them up and down his wrists, and that was when it hit him that they fit rather loosely. Almost as if....

He looked down. "Lestrade," he said slowly.

"What?" Lestrade looked up from where he'd been frantically searching a cupboard.

"I need you to help me with something."

"What is it?" Lestrade snapped. Frustrated, he threw a jar to the floor. The sound of the glass shattering echoed in the small room and he winced. Lestrade drew a deep, shaky breath, awkwardly passing his bound hands through his hair. "Sorry. I'm just -" he broke off and closed his eyes, fighting for composure.

"It's alright," Watson said in the most soothing voice he could muster. "Besides, this should cheer you up. I need you to dislocate my thumbs."

\-----

Pain was shooting through his hands, up his arms, overtaking his senses for a moment as he thrashed desperately, firm hands holding him in place. He whimpered, teeth grinding into the leather of his belt when he finally, _finally_ heard the clang of the metal cuffs hitting the floor. At first he was so disoriented all he could do was look up at Lestrade, who was staring at him as though he couldn't believe what he'd just done; mouth open, face chalk-white. Blinking, he carefully guided Lestrade's hands to press the right joint back into his socket and helped with the left. He spat the belt out, and ran his tongue around in his mouth, trying to dislodge the taste of dirt and his own sweat where it had poured down his face. He spat again for good measure and gasped.

"Wrap," he panted.

"What?" Lestrade knelt in front of him, watching his face closely. Watson nodded at his hands.

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he said, "Wrap the joint. I should still have some range of movement with it, though." Lestrade quickly tore small strips from the bottom of his shirt and Watson guided him to wrap it around the joint and palm. When done, he shifted his thumb experimentally and winced.

"It'll do," he said. Lestrade looked down at his own cuffs, lips shaking, then squared his shoulders, determined.

"This should be enough," Watson said gently. He stood shakily; Lestrade moved to grip one of his elbows and helped steady him as he walked to the door. He leaned forward and pressed his ear to it, straining to catch any sound at all. The area beyond was silent. He turned to Lestrade. "Help me."

They threw their weight against the door repeatedly. Finally, it cracked down the center and in two more blows they were tumbling to the ground outside it. Watson looked around. They were sprawled at the bottom of a steep staircase that ended at a trapdoor; light was flowing through the slats. Wordlessly they pulled each other to their feet and ran.

The trapdoor wasn't locked. They burst through it, surprise overtaking them for a moment as they sprawled on what looked like a kitchen floor. Watson blinked and rubbed his eyes against the sudden flood of light. Sunlight streamed through the window; a thrill of fear shot through him as h realized it was nearing evening. He had been unconscious most of the day. They'd had so much time, what could they have done?

A hand tugged at his elbow. He turned to Lestrade. His face was grim but determined. "Take the west wing," Lestrade murmured. "I'll take the east. I'll come and find you if I find anything strange and you'll do the same. Understood?" Watson could only nod, then Lestrade was off.

He tried to be quiet, at first. After the first few rooms were empty, however, he stopped listening carefully at each one and after half of them, he was simply throwing open doors frantically, fear gripping his heart and urging him on faster even as his hope dwindled. Finally, he opened the door of the last room.

Empty.

He sank to his knees in the doorway. No. Holmes had to be here, he _had_ to, otherwise it meant...

He shook his head. _No._ He buried his face in his hands.

Footsteps were approaching rapidly behind him. He leapt to his feet and spun around just in time to see Lestrade skid around the corner awkwardly. "There's a man guarding a door down there," Lestrade whispered. They ran back, gradually slowing until Lestrade was leading them tiptoeing to a hallway. Watson peered around the corner.

A man stood with his back to them, arms crossed, clearly bored. It only took an instant for Watson to creep forward and clap a hand over his mouth, gripping him tightly by the throat with his other. He spun them around and Lestrade caught him around the head with his cuffs; the man slumped in his arms, unconscious. Watson dragged him around the corner and riffled through his pockets.

"No keys," he whispered. He held up a revolver; Lestrade took it wordlessly and together they crept toward the door. Watson situated himself in front, hand on the knob and Lestrade stood slightly behind him, gun ready. Lestrade nodded once and he threw the door open and took a step inside. They both stopped instantly.

The room was dark, the windows covered by thick draperies. Holmes knelt on the ground in the center of the room, a candle flickering next to him. He'd been stripped of his shirt, Watson noted. There were large, oddly colored lumps on his arms and what looked like cigarette burns littered his chest. Blood was caked in his hair, running down his bruised face. Still, even bloody, with his arms tied behind his back and a gag forced between his lips, he managed to look regal; his knees planted firmly, back taunt and erect, leveling a look of quiet contempt in their direction. The instant they stepped into the light, however, his eyes widened and his features twisted in disbelief and pain. He hunched over forward and ducked his head, looking so heart-wrenchingly _broken_ that Watson could do little else but fall to his knees before him and encourage him to rest his head on his shoulder. Lestrade knelt behind him and clumsily worked at the ties on his wrists and gag. The instant his hands were free Holmes pressed them to his abdomen and did his best to curl around them protectively.

"It's alright," Watson whispered. Holmes whimpered and pressed closer, as though he could crawl inside of him. Fresh blood spilled down his arm, and Watson felt bile rise in the back of his throat when he realized the lumps were bandages, so thick with blood and gore that they were unrecognizable already. The bastards had intended to take their time, and were probably going to come back for more, too. He clenched his fists and closed his eyes. _Breathe._ He opened his eyes and tried to focus. _Breathe._ With effort, he pushed his rage to the back of his mind. He leaned closer, murmuring soothing words and gently grasped Holmes' forearm. Holmes started, but let Watson draw one of his hands away slightly and tilted his head to look between their bodies at it.

His wrists were too swollen for cuffs to fit around, he realized. Tears stung his eyes as he carefully turned his friend's hand over to examine it. His hands had always been works of art: long, thin digits which coaxed beautiful tunes from his violin, could deftly work through knots and locks alike, and possessed an iron firm grip when required. Now, his pointer finger and thumb stuck out at odd angles, as though they'd been snapped and bent back, and a large purple bruise was already spreading over the other three knuckles. The palm looked deflated, as though it had been crushed under a heel or by a hammer - the would never be the same, Watson realized. As though reading his thoughts, Holmes shifted his head slightly to press his face to Watson's neck. The moisture he felt there snapped him back to reality. Blood rushing in his ears, Watson gently eased Holmes' head from his shoulder and stood. Lestrade shifted in front of Holmes and reached out to touch his shoulder, but wavered uncertainly, fingers curling. Watson couldn't blame him; there didn't seem to be an inch of the man not covered in blood. Finally, he shifted into the same position Watson had just been in, allowing Holmes to press his face to his shoulder.

Watson walked over to the window and pushed the drape aside slowly. There were no carriages out front, but there were no guarantees as to when they'd be back to finish them off.

"We have to go. Holmes, how long ago did they leave?"

"They said you were both dead," came the soft reply. "They said," he took a deep breath, "They said they did you first. They went on and on about how you screamed -" his voice broke. Watson but his lip as emotion threatened to overcome him once more; he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his palms against them. _Breathe._

"We're right here," Lestrade said firmly. Suddenly the window was too far away; he crossed to them and gently rested his hands on Holmes' shoulders. Holmes continued to draw deep, unsteady breaths.

"We have to go," he repeated. "They could be back any minute. Can you stand?"

Holmes rose, shaking like a newborn colt. Watson wrapped an arm firmly around his torso and Lestrade struggled with the window for a moment when his cuffs snagged, then they were outside, hobbling across the lawn as fast as they could go, trying to find shelter.


	3. Chapter 3

They pushed beyond the boundaries of the estate and parallel to the road as far as Holmes could go before he collapsed. Lestrade and Watson nearly dragged him to sit slumped against a tree trunk, safely hidden from the road. Watson didn't dare stop any carriages for help, for fear of alerting their captors. Instead he dug through Holmes' pockets, careful to announce his intent clearly before each new intrusion, until he found the lock picks. Once Lestrade was unbound, Watson tugged him to sit closer to Holmes, who leaned against him gratefully, head sinking onto his shoulder. Lestrade shot him a questioning look.

"I'll be back with help soon," Watson said. Holmes jerked his head up, looking panicked as he reached for him desperately with one swollen, misshapen hand. Watson gripped his wrist before he could do more damage. He knelt to look him in the eye, hoping to reassure him. "I _will_ be back," he said firmly. Holmes stared at him for a long moment. Watson held his gaze, determined, trying to will his friend to relax. Finally, Holmes' eyes softened slightly, and Lestrade slid an arm around his shoulder and gently encouraged him to lay his head back down. Holmes' eyes slid closed and Watson let out the breath he'd been holding. He and Lestrade exchanged one last apprehensive look, then he was off, headed for town.

It took far too long for the local police to round up carriages. It was dark by time they were jostling down the small country road. Watson shifted in his seat, ignoring the irritated looks the officers shot him every time he grumbled impatiently. All he could think of was Holmes, broken and bleeding crouched on the side of the road. Had he finally fallen unconscious? He hoped he had. He hoped Lestrade still had the strength in him to fight, if needed. How far had they run? Had it been enough? God, what if he'd left them both to die?

The thicket of trees was fast approaching, and he called their attention to it louder than necessary. He jumped from the still moving carriage and ran through the underbrush, swinging around the patch of trees to see -

Nothing.

Chest heaving, he started to look around when cool steel pressed to his temple. Fear and anger surged through him, adrenaline tightening every muscle in his body. His captor stepped closer, then a rush of air was exhaled against the side of his face.

"God, it's you," a choked voice said. The gun withdrew, and he turned to see Lestrade looking weary in the moonlight, gun held loosely at his side. Holmes slumped against a tree behind him, eyes wide.

Relief flooded through him so suddenly he felt tears spring to his eyes. He pulled a startled Lestrade into a one armed hug; Lestrade gave only token protests as he gripped him back firmly. Then he moved to kneel before Holmes, reaching out to cup his cheek, watching as his eyes slid closed and he shifted to fit his cheek better into Watson's palm.

He heard Lestrade barking orders at the officers behind him, directing a carriage on to the estate at once, ordering for officers from the Yard to be summoned that very night. He and Holmes were led to one of the carriages. Once seated Holmes leaned against him and shut his eyes. Watson stared out the window and tried not to think.

Somehow they ended up back in their room at the inn, Holmes spread out on one of the beds, the country doctor standing stock-still in the doorway, mouth agape. Watson strode over to him and jerked his bag out of his hands, snarling at him to bring more bandages. The man stammered the affirmative and fled in all haste.

He rummaged through the bag until he found the strongest sedative in it; he sank the needle into his friends arm. Setting the needle aside, he gently stroked Holmes' side until his eyelids began to droop. Panic flashed over his face briefly, but Watson leaned forward and pressed a light kiss to his forehead.

"Sleep now," he whispered. Holmes nodded jerkily, eyes finally falling closed. Once he was sure Holmes was unconscious, Watson reached for his hands. Setting the breaks wasn't difficult; they were mostly clean, thank God. He cleaned and wrapped his hands before turning his attention to the rest of him. Carefully, he peeled the rest of his blood clothing off and set about cleaning the wounds.

Some time later the door opened and Lestrade slipped inside, looking as haggard as Watson felt. "The report's filed," he said. He paled as he took in the mound of bloodied rags next to the bed. Then he pursed his lips and began to roll up his sleeves, walking over to the bed. "What do you need me to do?"

Watson carefully stitched the wounds, Lestrade moving behind him to wind bandages over them and the smaller cuts. Once they were finished, Watson pulled a dressing gown from Holmes' bag and they dressed him. Watson pressed a hand to eyes where he stood, exhaustion threatening to overtake him. A hand gripped his shoulder.

"Lay down before you fall down, doctor," Lestrade said, not unkindly, as he guided him to the other bed. "He's going to need you more than me when he wakes up."

"He's going to need both of us," he heard himself say as he laid down. His eyelids felt like lead.

"Then rest now," Lestrade said. "I'll be here."

\-----

Watson awoke a few hours later. Now that Holmes was patched up and in no immediate danger, he had expected to drift off for several hours, but apparently his overactive mind had other ideas. Lestrade sat at the small table, slumped, blood shot eyes focused on Holmes' sleeping form. Two bottles sat on the table. Watson rose without a word and crossed to the other seat and Lestrade slid the second bottle across the table at him, eyes never leaving Holmes. Watson accepted the drink gratefully, and for a while they sat quietly, sleeves rolled up, drinks in hand.

"So what now?" Lestrade asked, finally shifting to look at Watson.

Watson frowned. "We can't move him for a while."

"Are the wounds that bad?" Lestrade asked.

Watson took a deep breath. "Not individually. Some of the cuts on his arms especially were rather deep; but it's the sheer number of stitches. He'll have to be bed ridden, at least until some of the wounds have healed." He looked over at Lestrade, who still looked nervous. "It will be a while," he admitted, "but he should be fine." He forced a smile, "After all, he's got a good doctor, and I daresay you'll make a fine nurse," he winked. Lestrade made a face and a rude hand gesture. Watson laughed and took a drink, resting an elbow on the table. Lestrade relaxed slightly.

"Until then...?"

"It'll be the usual care giving routine - spoon feeding, bed pans - "

" - sponge baths?" Lestrade smirked, teasing.

Watson chuckled. He sank farther back in his chair with a grin. "Not as sexy as you'd imagine."

Lestrade leaned forward, smiling. "You've done it, though?" he asked.

"Once. He came down with a wretched sickness a year or so ago. Stubborn ass refused to stay in bed. Ended up being sick all over himself in the sitting room and collapsing."

"Not in front of a client?"

"No; though it would have served him right. Anyway, he had to be cleaned up before I dragged him off to bed."

Lestrade looked around the small room, suddenly thoughtful. "It makes more sense for you to room with him," Lestrade said.

"It makes more sense for us _both_ to room with him, for added protection," Watson pointed out.

"I only see two beds," Lestrade said, "and one of them is occupied by an injured man. Unless you're suggesting -"

"- I'm not suggesting that we share a bed," Watson said hastily. "I'm suggesting we have the owner send a cot up, and pay a week advance, at least, on the room."

Slight stirring from the bed drew both of their attention, and in an instant they were seated on either side of Holmes, who looked around, disoriented. He tried to speak, but only a soft wheeze came out. Lestrade carefully slid an arm under his shoulders and helped him sit up as Watson held a small glass of water to his lips.

"Slowly," he murmured. Holmes shot him a grateful look as Lestrade lowered him back to the bed.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Back at the inn."

"What happened to them?"

"Them?"

"The - the men who..." he trailed off and closed his eyes. Watson and Lestrade exchanged a dark look.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "They haven't been found yet," he admitted. Holmes' eyes shot open and they gripped his shoulders to keep him lying down. "_Yet,_" Lestrade repeated.

"Can you tell us anything?" Watson asked. "Did you recognize any of them?"

"No," Holmes leaned back against the bed and looked up at the ceiling in thought. "Most of them seemed to be hired hands or there for the sport of it." A chill ran down Watson's spine. "There was one man, though - he was in charge. He said," he drew a deep, shaky breath, "He said I killed his son." He tried to sit up once more, but they held him in place firmly. "I must return to Baker Street at once," he said firmly. "In order to - "

"The best thing you can do right now is focus on getting better, Holmes," Watson said sternly. Holmes raised a hand to protest, but fell silent when he caught sight of the splints on his fingers. He dropped his hand to the blanket and looked away moodily.

The days passed slowly, with Holmes alternating between unbearable crankiness and a stubborn need to keep them in sight at all times. They'd developed a trade-off system of sorts so they could stay involved with the investigation without leaving Holmes alone, but he was never truly relaxed unless they were both with him. He would often end up lapsing into a black mood and refusing to speak.

The burns on his chest had all but healed, and Watson was grateful to see that the stitches on several of the smaller gashes would be ready to come out soon. The swelling in his wrists had gone down enough that he could clumsily feed himself simple foods with his few unbroken fingers. The moment he had _that_ revelation, he had refused any help whatsoever, and they'd been forced to pay the kitchen staff extra to only prepare foods Holmes could manage alone.

It was well into the evening of their seventh day at the inn. Watson looked in the mirror of the wash room, taking in the circles that had begun to form under his eyes with a sigh. He opened the door, absently fixing his collar as he glanced through the doorway at the bed. What he saw made him freeze. Lestrade was leaning heavily on the bed, one arm supporting his weight. He had reached over Holmes and was carefully running his fingers through his hair. His lips were moving, telling some story, but from this distance, Watson couldn't hear it.

Watson leaned against the door frame, transfixed. Holmes' face was relaxed, eyes bright for the first time since they'd found him in that wretched room. Happiness radiated from him, and jealousy tugged at him at Lestrade having been the one to produce it. But then Holmes laughed - the same beautiful, rich sound he remembered - and he forgot to be jealous at all. His eyes misted over and he took a cautious step into the room, hoping to catch part of what Lestrade was saying to enrapture Holmes so. The movement drew Lestrade's eye, however, and he pulled his hand back a fraction, unsure. Watson shook his head, but Holmes had already noticed him.

"Watson?" he asked. He'd developed a strange habit of asking about their presence, like an affirmation of sorts.

"Yes, Holmes," he crossed the room to sit on the other side of the bed. Lestrade drew his hand back and settled back in his chair, hand resting on Holmes' arm instead. That was another strange development. Holmes had never been shy about initiating light touches - a pat on the back of his hand as they parted, strolling arm in arm through the streets - but now contact soothed him like little else could anymore. He would lean eagerly into their hands, encouraging them with soft sounds and movements to touch his hair, his face, his arms, his chest. It was maddening. More than once he'd seen Lestrade darting toward the wash room, cheeks stained a light pink. He couldn't even rib the man about it; he'd done it often enough himself. He would have considered it a gift from the Gods if such wanton eagerness weren't so un-_Holmes_-like. Privately, Watson worried that some sort of psychological trauma might have been done.

"I was just telling Mr. Holmes about Hopkins' first day at the Yard," Lestrade told him, pulling him from his thoughts. Watson smiled gratefully. Holmes shifted an arm closer to him and Watson reached out obediently to run his fingers down it, pushing darker thoughts from his mind. Here and now, Holmes was looking at him expectantly, tilting his head in his direction until Watson gave in and threaded a hand in his hair.

"Let me see if I can think of a good one," Watson said, and Holmes smiled so brightly at him that for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

They passed the long, cold night that way: telling stories from before they'd met; stories from their separate professions; stories that featured each other and had them calling out parts they remembered over the din of their own laughter. Eventually Lestrade and Holmes nodded off, Lestrade curled up in his chair, head resting on Holmes' pillow; as Watson rested his upper body on the bed and drifted off as well, he couldn't help but feel that even though some things had been irreversibly broken, wounds they hadn't even known were there had begun to mend.


	4. Chapter 4

It was only a matter of days before Holmes was well enough to return to Baker Street. He was eager to get back and pour over his books, to try and get a handle on their only lead. Lestrade, for his part, packed slowly, withdrawn and sullen. Watson tried to draw him into conversation several times, but Lestrade merely shrugged him off and went back to looking around with the same vacant expression. Holmes was able to move around the room with surprising efficiency for a man who'd been bed-ridden for ten days, but Watson could only attribute it to it being, well, Holmes, and soon enough they were standing outside of Baker Street, bags in hand.

Holmes shifted from foot to foot impatiently as Watson unlocked the door; the instant he was able to, he pushed past them and hurried inside. Mrs. Hudson greeted them, and Holmes stopped long enough to allow her to fuss over his hands and bruises. He gave her an indulgent smile, politely requested tea, and then took the stairs two at a time. Watson and Lestrade said hasty hellos as well, and hurried after him. Watson couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm; he had missed the cozy warmth of Baker Street, as well. He opened the sitting room door and for a moment just smiled, content to be home. The familiarity seeped into him and relieved tension he didn't even know he had. Holmes had deposited himself on the settee, leaning back and closing his eyes, lips curved in a slight smile. Watson draped a blanket over him, then stepped back and sank into his chair, grateful to be home. Lestrade fidgeted.

"Well, I should be going," he muttered finally. Holmes' eyes shot open in a panic, and Watson pushed himself to his feet before he even knew what he was doing. He crossed to stand in front of Lestrade, speaking in low tones.

"Take the settee, for now," he said softly. "At least until he's... well." They both knew he didn't mean physically. Lestrade looked between them and nodded, a soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Holmes leaned back, relieved. Lestrade left then and returned shortly, bags in hand. If it seemed as though he had packed for too long of a stay, well, no one commented on it.

Watson retired to his room early that evening, quickly changing into a dressing gown. He'd barely gotten it over his head when the door swung open behind him. He started and turned to see Holmes standing in the doorway, dressed only in a loose pair of pants, hair damp. The bruises on his chest were mostly faded, not nearly prominent enough to distract him from planes of hard muscle, smooth skin that begged to be touched. Watson cleared his throat and looked away, uncomfortable. It was one thing to be detached when helping Holmes dress or use the wash room, but another to be presented with him half-dressed and tousled in the privacy of Watson's bedroom.

"Lestrade helped you get ready for bed, I take it?" he said. Holmes nodded absently, looking around the room.

"Getting undressed and in the bath, at least. I should at least be able to dress myself for bed." Watson refrained from mentioning that he hadn't quite finished the job; he knew how much Holmes hated having to rely on them for basic tasks. "So you'll be sleeping up here, then?" Watson started at that, and turned to look at him.

"Of course. Where else would I sleep?" a strange look came over Holmes' face, but he nodded again. He stepped closer, until Watson could feel the heat radiating off his body and his breath ghosted over his cheek, sending little shocks of pleasure down his spine. He looked at the hard expanse of Holmes' chest in front of him and reached up to rest his palms against the muscles there; Holmes hmm'd in appreciation and slid his arms around him, crossing his wrists slightly lower than proper on his back. Holmes turned his head slowly, exhaling against his mouth, and Watson knew Holmes had to feel the way he was quivering. Holmes pressed a light kiss to his cheek, barely touching the side of his mouth. He couldn't help the slight gasp that escaped him; Holmes shifted his lips slightly, sliding his arms up Watson's sides, raising gooseflesh everywhere he touched.

Watson was suddenly painfully aware of his arousal; he moved back slightly, afraid that any moment Holmes would shift and notice it as well. Holmes pulled back just far enough to smile at him, then in what felt like an instant he was halfway across the room headed for the door. He wished him a good night over his shoulder, then he was gone.

Watson gripped the bedpost for support until he heard Holmes' footsteps fade away down the stairs. He crossed to the door and turned the key in the lock, frantically tugging at his night clothes until he'd freed himself from the confines of his pants. He turned and rest his back on the door and gripped his cock with a whimper. Dammit, he'd had the self-control of a _saint_ over the past week. He stroked himself quickly, closing his eyes and picturing Holmes' face, eyes soft and half lidded as he stroked his hair. _This isn't right,_ he thought. Pleasure was building at the base of his spine, and he bucked his hips frantically, imagining the smooth feel of Holmes' skin under his fingertips - _He's ill, it's not right_ \- He sped up his hand, squeezing and pulling until he bit his lip to keep from crying out as he spent himself over his hand and pants.

He just stood there at first, trying to catch his breath and calm his racing heart. Then he looked down at his mess and shame overtook him. His friend was sick, suffering from some lasting trauma of having been _tortured,_ and he was using it as fodder for his own fantasies. Feeling ill, he quickly rid himself of his soiled clothes, wiping his hands on them and changing before cleaning his hands in the basin of water on the side board. _It won't happen again,_ he told himself as he unlocked the door. He could be stronger. Nodding to himself, he crawled into bed.

Watson awoke later that night to a knock on the door. He looked out the window and groaned. It was still pitch black out. "Come in," he called. As the door creaked open he realized it couldn't be Holmes - he never bothered to knock, particularly when waking him. "Lestrade?" he asked as he lit a candle. The man hesitated in the doorway. He was wearing a well-worn old dressing gown and fidgeting nervously with the sleeve.

"He's tearing the sitting room apart," Lestrade said with a yawn. "One minute he's telling me to go back to sleep, the next he's knocking over a stack of books, trying his best to hold 'em open. I offered to help, but..."

"I know how he is. Threw you out?" Lestrade nodded. Watson shifted to the side, pressed up against the wall uncomfortably as Lestrade laid down on top of the covers. Watson tried to get comfortable on his back, but Lestrade kept shifting awkwardly, clearing his throat. "Stop moving," Watson grumbled. Lestrade stilled, but cleared his throat again. "What?" Watson asked finally.

"Mr. Holmes came up earlier?" A flash of shame went through him. Watson turned his face toward the wall.

"To wish me a good night. I hadn't realized I'd left the sitting room without saying so."

"Yes, he did to me, as well." Suddenly it dawned on Watson why Lestrade was asking. He turned back and propped himself up on one elbow.

"What did he do?" he coaxed. Lestrade looked back and lifted an eyebrow.

"What did he do to _you?_"

"A kiss. Just here," he pointed to his cheek. Lestrade just nodded. It was Watson's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Well?" he prompted.

"A hug. Well, as best he can, what with..." he raised his own hands by way of explanation. Watson narrowed his eyes, and Lestrade blushed spectacularly. "He was still naked," he admitted. "Right out of the bath. Soaked my clothes and everything. I turned around for a second to get a towel, and when I turned back..." He cleared his throat and looked away. Watson laid back down, and for several minutes they lay in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

"It's not right, is it?" Lestrade said softly.

"No, it's not," Watson agreed quietly. There seemed little else to say, after that.

\-----

"Joseph Walter Wright, Clarence Edwards, and Louis Earl Campbell," Holmes announced over breakfast. Watson and Lestrade both stilled and looked at him expectantly. Then Watson's brain whirled back to life.

"Joseph Walter Wright," he mussed. "He murdered the Duchess Clara Simpson. He was hanged six months ago."

"As a direct result of our investigation," Holmes confirmed.

"You think that's what he meant when he said you killed his son?" Lestrade asked.

"It seems the most likely option," Holmes said. He sat at the table and picked at his toast, lost in thought.

"I suppose it wouldn't be hard to confirm," Lestrade said. "I could send a few men 'round to their parents' estates," he leaned back in his chair in thought. "I could probably head out to one myself, in fact, since I'll -"

"_No!_" Holmes' outburst startled them both. He gave them a tight, small smile, then turned away moodily. "No, that's not necessary," he lifted his pipe carefully in one hand, pinched between splints and attempted to light a match with the other. He cursed under his breath when the first one snapped in half; he threw it on the floor and tried with a second. Lestrade reached over and gently tugged the matchbox out of his hand and lit one, holding it to his pipe. Holmes somehow managed to look both annoyed and grateful at the same time. He leaned back in his chair.

"I can easily get descriptions from other avenues; there is no need to waste the Yard's time in this manner. The usual ones will suffice." Lestrade bristled, but pointedly sipped his tea and said nothing.

Lestrade departed shortly for the Yard - after promising Holmes repeatedly he would not look into the parent's estates - and Holmes sent word out to his contacts. By mid-afternoon, a telegram came back with a description of Joseph Walter Wright's father, which Holmes dismissed with a sour look. "Two options," he murmured. He paced the sitting room all afternoon, chain smoking cigarettes. Watson watched him anxiously. Lestrade returned later that evening, and the two of them dined while Holmes muttered to himself darkly. Finally, just as Watson was considering retiring for the evening, Mrs. Hudson came in with a telegram. Holmes pounced on her, and snatched the envelope only to hand it off to Watson to open.

"Louis Earl Campbell's father is a short man, greying sideburns and a moustache," he read. Holmes huffed and shook his head. "Clarence Edward's father - Alfred Lawrence Edwards - could not be found, but servants described him as short, with a slender build, black hair, clean shaven, wears spectacles."

"That's him!" Holmes stood. Watson looked up, startled.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Alfred Lawrence Edwards," Holmes purred in response. "We'll have him yet."

Over the next few weeks Holmes was even more like his old self, following reports of Edwards and his possible associates as close as a hawk. The reports were vague and contradictory, however. He was increasingly frustrated by lack of information even as he became more excited every passing day that he came closer to having full use of his hands. It produced a strange effect in him: one minute he'd be pacing, muttering darkly; the next, he'd be curled up on the settee next to Watson or Lestrade, pressing into their hands and murmuring softly. He took to strange hours once more, so Lestrade and Watson quickly resigned themselves to sharing Watson's cramped bed out of necessity. Holmes would appear in their doorway every night, crowding them in turn and daring light kisses on foreheads or upturned cheeks. He left as quickly as he came, leaving them all flushed faces and shallow breaths, unsure where to look as they climbed into bed.

Finally, the day came for the splints and bandages to come off his hands. Holmes and Watson were seated at the table, Lestrade reading quietly in Holmes' chair in front of the fire. Watson carefully unwound the bandages, trying not to get distracted by Holmes' impossibly bright eyes as he watched the movement. Once he was finished, Holmes flexed his fingers experimentally, face crumpling when they barely moved.

"It might take some time," Watson told him gently. "There's no reason that, with proper exercise, you won't get your full range of movement back." He felt a stab of pain; Holmes was still staring at his fingers as though they'd betrayed him. The look of sheer disbelief on his face was heartbreaking. Watson moved to slip an arm around his shoulders, but Holmes pushed him away impatiently and stalked off to his room. Lestrade looked up when the door slammed, but Watson just shrugged his shoulders at him, dejected.

Watson awoke that night to soft, off-tune sounds floating up the stairs. Beside him, Lestrade stirred, confusion clear on his face. Watson led the way as they crept down the steps and peered into the sitting room.

Holmes stood in the center of the room, violin tucked under his chin, the dying fire illuminating him with deep red and orange hues. His tongue peeked out between his lips as he tried to force his hands to cooperate. He drew the bow across slowly and cursed when his fingers spasmed, drawing a shriek when it should have been a quiet shudder. He took a deep, steadying breath and raised the bow again only to fumble with it and drop it completely. The violin slipped from his fingers, falling to the rug with a quiet thump, as he bent slowly and lifted the bow. He held it balanced in the palms of his hands, regarding it quietly for a moment. Lestrade glanced at Watson questioningly, but he just shook his head, unsure. Suddenly, Holmes swung around with a snarl and hurled the bow across the room. Pain rippled through his features as a resounding crack echoed when it snapped in two. Chest heaving, he wavered where he stood, then fell to his knees and ran his hands through his hair. A soft sound filled the air; Watson tilted his head to hear better. His heart clenched, tears filling his own eyes when he realized Sherlock Holmes was weeping. Lestrade shifted next to him, as though to stand. Watson snatched his wrist, shaking his head violently, causing twin tears to roll down his cheeks. He knew they couldn't go inside. Knew Holmes would never be able to look at them again if he knew they had seen this. So instead he settled himself on the floor and waited, gripping Lestrade's hand as they bore witness to their friend's pain, even if he would never know it.

\-----

The next morning they crept down the stairs cautiously. Both the broken bow and the violin had been removed from the sitting room. Holmes sat at the table, shirt half buttoned, waistcoat hanging open. He pursed his lips but said nothing as Lestrade crossed and finished the buttons for him. Mrs. Hudson brought breakfast, and Holmes pushed his food around his plate, eyes far away. Finally, Holmes pushed his plate away and crossed to his chair. Watson watched him, heart aching. He wanted to reach out to his friend, find some way to ease his suffering. Lestrade was looking at Holmes, thoughts obviously running in the same vein as Watson's own, gently running a fingertip around the top of his glass. As Watson watched the movement, an idea came to him. He threw down his napkin.

"Holmes," Watson said as he pushed back his chair, "Let me see your hands." Holmes' scowl deepened, but he held them out dutifully as Watson crossed to kneel in front of him, Lestrade trailing behind him. Watson watched his face carefully as he took the palm of Holmes' right hand in his left and began to gently run a finger over the tips. Holmes' mouth dropped open slightly, anger quickly giving way to surprise; and something else, if Watson were honest with himself. He switched hands, eyes never leaving Holmes' face, ghosting a light touch over each digit, watching as a ruddy pink color blossomed over his friend's cheeks, his breath catching in his throat.

"You see?" he whispered. Holmes started slightly and looked at his face. "You can still feel. Even if you can't yet perform more complicated tasks - " Holmes' eyes narrowed at that, " - you still _have_ them. Isn't that enough, for now?"

Holmes simply stared at his face for a long moment. Just as he began to feel foolish, Holmes gently tugged his hands away, then reached out. He ran his fingers over Watson's cheekbones, down his nose and pressed gently for a moment at his temples. Watson's eyes slid closed and his mouth opened slightly as his breath hitched, feeling those beautiful fingers finally on his skin. He hadn't realized how much he'd craved reciprocal touch until this moment. They passed over his eyelids, in hot trails down his cheeks until they were cupping his face gently. Holmes brushed his thumbs over his lips, even daring to press a tip inside for a second, bumping against his teeth. Watson snaked his tongue forward without thinking, running over the pad. Holmes made a soft noise in the back of his throat that shot straight to his groin, his breath quickening. He opened his eyes as Holmes pulled back and regarded the moisture on his finger for a second before he drew the digit into his own mouth, moving his other hand to brush gently through Watson's hair.

Lestrade made a soft noise, and they both turned to look at him. His cheeks were stained a dark red, his mouth open slightly. Holmes' hands left Watson instantly, but he only had a moment to miss them before he was witnessing Holmes ghosting his fingers over Lestrade's features, caressing the hollows of his cheeks and his strong brow, running a finger down his throat as he swallowed, slipping a hand under his collar and fitting it to his collarbone. Just as Lestrade was shooting him a desperate look, a knock came on the sitting room door and Holmes cursed loudly and rose. Watson snapped back to himself, trying to discreetly arrange himself to some sort of respectable state as Lestrade gave up discretion entirely and bent over to adjust his erection under the waistband of his trousers.

Holmes pulled open the sitting room door and stepped aside to allow Mrs. Hudson to enter. She presented him with a telegram and turned to gather the dishes. He took it with a bright smile, all previous anger forgotten, tearing it open theatrically before handing it to Watson to read. Watson took a deep breath, willing his voice not to shake. "Alfred Lawrence Edwards has fled to the continent," he read. He looked up at Holmes, who was regarding them with a self-satisfied mixture of arrogance and affection. "You expected this, I take it?" He couldn't help but smile; Holmes was back to some of his old tricks, it seemed.

"Of course," Holmes said, smirking. "Edwards has been forced out of hiding at last - he has gone to France."

"But... how do you know that?" Watson asked, confused.

"I suggest you pack," was all Holmes said. He spun on his heel with a flourish and darted into his own room, leaving them dazed.


	5. Chapter 5

When they reached their hotel, the first thing Watson was struck by was the sheer extravagance. They had travelled in the past as cases required, but Holmes had always considered proximity to their suspect more important than personal comfort. Holmes led the way into their hotel room, barely glancing around the extravogant interior before he turned to the maid and began barking orders in French. Lestrade and Watson both stood, dumbfounded, as the girl hurried from the room and Holmes immediately prepared to leave once more.

"Wait!" Watson said. "What's going on? Where are you going?"

Holmes turned to smile at them, "We are ready to tighten our net. I am making arrangements." With that, he was gone. Lestrade grumbled behind him.

They turned and carefully examined the rooms. They were in a large sitting room, a fireplace at the far end burning merrily. Watson opened the door nearest him, as Lestrade crossed to the other side and opened the one he found there.

"Wash room," Watson called over his shoulder. Lestrade didn't respond. It was a large wash room, like everything else, he noted wryly. The tub had pipes leading up to it; he crossed to it and examined it excitedly. Trust Holmes to pick the most up-to-date hotel in all of Paris. "Lestrade," he called over his shoulder as he spun the tap and hot water rushed out. "Lestrade?" Frowning, he turned the water off and crossed the sitting room.

Lestrade was looking around a rather large bedroom, with a settee in front of a bay window overlooking the city, and a large canopy bed in the center of the room.

One bed.

"There must've been some mistake," Lestrade suggested.

Watson sighed. "It's likely they'll be able to move us. Holmes will have to ask, whenever he decides to return."

Lestrade nodded absently and collapsed on the far side of the bed with a yawn. He groaned and rolled onto his stomach, settling in with a smile on his face. "Hopefully all their beds are this comfortable," he said. Watson walked to the other side and laid down as well. He had to agree, he thought as he sank into the bed. In a matter of minutes he was asleep.

The bed dipping in the center awoke him, and he had just long enough to realize darkness had fallen when a warmth at his side drew his attention. He turned to see Holmes, eyes bright and smiling, settling inbetween them. Watson rolled toward him onto his side.

"We'll have him within a day's time," Holmes said, his cheeks flushed slightly in excitement. Watson felt his mouth go dry. On Holmes' other side, Lestrade stretched and propped himself up on his elbows.

"Are you going to tell us what's going on, then?" he asked with a yawn. Holmes made a soft noise in response and slid a hand inside the neck of Lestrade's shirt where it had fallen forward. Watson couldn't help but lean closer to watch those long fingers trailing over skin. Lestrade shuddered and Watson shifted even closer, bumping against Holmes' side. In an instant Holmes' other arm had snaked around Watson's waist, untucking his shirt to ghost over his side and abdomen. Watson bit his lip, watching Holmes' face as his grin widened at their looks of surprised arousal. He fumbled a bit with the buttons of Lestrade's shirt, but managed to get enough undone to run his fingers down his chest as he dipped his other hand just under Watson's waistband to brush at the warm skin there.

"You know," he said breathlessly, "It seems to me the moment I regained some use of my fingers you both lost the use of yours. Now why is that?" He said it playfully, but they shot each other guilty looks and Watson pulled back reluctantly.

"We can't do this," he said, as gently as he could. Holmes blinked, surprised, then flushed deeply and drew his hands away. A knock on the door drew their attention before Holmes could respond. Holmes rose from the bed and started for the door, muttering to himself. Watson felt frustration tear through him suddenly.

"Why are you keeping us in the dark?" he called after him, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Holmes paused at the doorway. "I can't..." he started to say. Then he simply shook his head and slipped out without so much as turning around.

Watson rose from the bed and crossed to the settee, sitting sideways to look moodily out the window behind him. Lestrade crossed to sit with him, turning as well. Arousal was still thrumming through his veins, making him shift uncomfortably, unable to focus on anything but the memory of Holmes' fingers stroking his hipbone. "This isn't working," Watson muttered.

"Maybe we could try something else," Lestrade suggested. Watson turned to look at him questioningly. Lestrade shifted, then raised his eyebrows at him. Watson blushed, but curiosity was already getting the better of him, and he reached out and cupped the back of Lestrade's neck and tugged gently. Lestrade leaned forward, hand coming to rest on Watson's hip as their lips brushed together. Watson pressed their lips together firmly, leaning into the kiss, tangling his fingers in his hair.

There was... nothing. It felt oddly _friendly_, he supposed. Comforting, even. But there was no passion, no heat. Lestrade pulled back a fraction and chuckled; Watson leaned back farther and just smiled at him and shrugged.

A soft noise came from the doorway and his heart leapt in his throat. Holmes stood there, clutching the door frame and looking back and forth between them, face unreadable. Blank. They both jumped to their feet, and Watson took a hesitant step toward him.

"It's not what you're thinking," he said.

"No, it's my fault," Holmes said formally. His eyes were focused on the floor in front of them. "Please excuse me for -" a brief look of pain crossed his features "- interrupting." He turned away.

"Wait," Lestrade said. Holmes stilled, hand on the doorknob.

"Let me talk to him," Watson muttered. Lestrade looked between the two of them and nodded.

The instant the door closed behind Lestrade, Holmes turned back to Watson. "I apologize," he said, still in that stiff, formal voice that made Watson want to hit something. "I believe I've - " he flushed again, "misinterpreted the situation. Please, forgive me."

"Holmes, you - " he took a deep breath, trying to think of the best thing to say. "You didn't misinterpret our intentions toward you," he flushed as he said it.

Holmes looked confused, but Watson was relieved he'd dropped the polite demeanor. "Then why did you stop?" he asked, uncertain.

Watson took a deep breath. "You've been - different, since, well..." he trailed off and cursed.

Holmes blinked at him. "You think things changed because of Edwards' little... session?"

Watson winced at the description. "Didn't they?" he asked. His head was starting to spin.

"Well, it seemed to serve as a catalyst of sorts, I'll admit, but no. You initiated it, I just never gave an indication you should stop. Nor will I."

Watson was about to protest when he thought back to the first few days, encouraging Holmes to rest his head on their shoulders, practically pushing him into Lestrade's lap. It was slowly dawning on him how transparent they must have been, especially to Holmes. And yet, another, darker thought was forming. Holmes had known of their feelings, and persisted in this frustrating _game_. He tightened his hands into fists. "You've been... manipulating us?"

"It's hardly manipulation if the subjects are willing -"

"Subjects," Watson said bitterly. "I can't _believe_ you, Holmes." He turned and stalked from the room.

The banging of the door caused Lestrade to start and jump up from where he'd been on the settee. "What's happened?" he asked instantly. Watson stalked past him and to the door. He pulled on his shoes, and next to him Lestrade wordlessly did the same. Neither of them spoke until they were halfway down the street.

"He knew," Watson said angrily. "He knew the _entire time!_" Lestrade was silent for a moment, contemplating.

"Isn't that a good thing, then?" he asked.

"Why didn't he just say something? Why persist in this game?"

"Well, why didn't you? Why didn't I?"

"Because we thought he was ill!" Watson snapped.

"And he wasn't," Lestrade gripped his elbow and stopped him. "He never tried to make us think he was. All this time, he's been trying to tell us he wants us. Not me, not you. Us." A thrill of happiness went through him at those words, but Lestrade suddenly looked less sure than ever. "Can you do that?" he asked.

Watson flushed, feeling foolish and giddy and slightly guilty for storming out. He turned to Lestrade and smiled, and Lestrade relaxed slightly. "Let's go back," he said. Lestrade nodded, and they turned around.

They were just in time to see a man dart down an alley behind them. Watson chuckled, and Lestrade shook his head.

"That man," Watson muttered affectionately. Lestrade laughed and took his arm, and together they walked back and peered down the dark alley.

Hands gripped them roughly and jerked them inside. A second later, Watson realized that if Holmes had been following them, then they never would have seen him.

They were dragged through the alleyways, arms wrenched behind their backs, hands clamped over their mouths. Watson struggled, but it was in vain; they had an iron grip on his wrists. Soon, one of their captors was tapping rhythmically on a door. An instant later it swung open, and they squinted against the light. A woman spoke rapidly in French, then stepped aside to let them pass. As they were dragged inside, Watson realized she was the maid Holmes had been barking orders at upon their arrival. Her eyes widened when she recognized him, and she shook her head a fraction and lowered her head. They were dragged through the kitchen, then up the stairs. Watson started when he realized they were in their own hotel, being ushered into the nearest room. It was furnished much like their own, only smaller. They were shoved into chairs, and a man who could only be Edwards approached them, smirking.

He spoke in rapid French to the men still holding them by their shoulders. _Hired hands,_ Watson suddenly remembered. _Or there for the sport of it._ He shuddered, fear forming an icy pit in his gut.

Edwards crossed to stand in front of them. "Sherlock Holmes," he said slowly, "has been making my life very difficult as of late. It doesn't seem as if our last encounter left enough of an... impression." He leaned over them slightly and smirked. "I believe this one will." He stood and began to pace in front of them. "Your presence last time was easily overlooked; however, a repeat performance - and so far away from British soil - can only mean one thing," they both shuddered at his grotesque smile, "You are important to him. And thus, to me."

Heart pounding in his chest, Watson blurted, "What did he do to you?" He glanced at the window, but it was still too dark to tell how much time had passed. _When will he notice we've been gone too long?_ he thought desperately. He scanned the room, looking for ways out. But there were too many near the exits to run, and too many to risk a fight.

"My son," Edwards said, "was killed six months ago due to the direct actions of that _man_," he spat the last word.

"Nothing that he didn't deserve," Lestrade snapped. Edwards spun in one smooth movement and gripped Lestrade by the hair, forcing him to rise slightly from his chair.

"A volunteer, how brave," Edwards muttered. A few of the men standing around snickered. Edwards hauled Lestrade forward, until he was kneeling in front of his chair. Panic swept through him as Edwards pulled a revolver from his pocket and pressed it to Lestrade's forehead. The color drained from Lestrade's face; Watson jerked forward in his chair only to be forced back by strong hands.

"I would dearly love to take my time with you," Edwards purred, "but I'm afraid your companion will be arriving soon, and I would hate to inadvertently deprive him of this experience." His finger tightened on the trigger.

A shot rang out, and Watson strained against the hands holding him, shouting, heart simultaneously pounding and breaking, until someone cuffed his ear and he collapsed back in the chair, dazed. Then, he noticed the door was open, lock destroyed, officers were pouring in -

\- and Holmes, crop against his shoulder, was striding toward Edwards with confident, purposeful movement. Lestrade darted back as Edwards swung the gun in a wide arc, aiming wildly at Holmes, but a single _crack_ of the crop and the gun clattered to the floor, harmless. Officers swarmed him, jerking his arms behind his back, before Watson could fully comprehend what had just happened. Lestrade, face still pale, shifted back into his seat and stared ahead. Holmes turned and watched the officers round up the ruffians with a careful eye. Watson reached a shaking hand across the chairs and touched Lestrade's wrist questioningly. Lestrade gave him a half smile and nodded in response. Watson gripped his pulse point a second longer, the pounding beneath his fingers soothing his own racing heart somewhat.

"Well," Holmes rested the crop on his shoulder and sauntered over to stand between their chairs. "I believe the disappearance of my colleagues will suffice for charges, for the moment." He dropped the crop to the floor, rested a hand on Lestrade's shoulder and smiled at them smoothly. There were no twitches. No fear buried in his cold eyes. He'd known. He'd honestly known he would reach them in time. Watson smiled and reached out to grip his free hand, trying to convey all his faith and love in that simple gesture. Holmes glanced at their hands and his eyes softened for a moment. Then he released them both and turned toward the French police. He spoke in rapid French, gesturing to them and then the door. The man nodded and waved him away impatiently. Holmes' lips quirked in annoyance for a second, then he was urging them to stand and move toward the door.

The moment they were out the door, Holmes grabbed each of them by the wrist, practically dragging them away from the scene and toward their room. "The two of you - " he sputtered. "Walking into an _ambush!_ You nearly _ruined_ my plans! If my informant hadn't seen you -"

But Watson couldn't help the goofy grin that was spreading over his face, remembering Holmes' demeanor as he faced down Edwards. He tried to think of something to say, but all he could think of were silly, romantic epithets, so he stayed silent.

Lestrade, thankfully, didn't.

"You're back," he breathed, and Watson finally laughed aloud, unable to contain it any longer. Holmes released their wrists to unlock the door and turned to look at them, clearly annoyed.

"What the devil are you two on about?" he demanded the moment they were inside.

"It's you," Watson said simply. Lestrade surged forward suddenly, pressing the detective against the wall and sealing their lips together. Watson leaned against the wall next to them and simply watched, a giddy feeling spreading throughout his entire body. Holmes slipped his arms around Lestrade's waist, and Lestrade moved to thread both his hands in Holmes' hair. Finally, Lestrade leaned back slightly. Holmes looked between the two of them, breathing heavy and still trying to look stern.

"I - You - Dammit, I'm trying to be angry with you," he snapped, but the edges of his lips were twitching. "And... I thought you were angry with me," he said, softer.

Watson stepped closer then, resting a hand on both their shoulders as he leaned in to finally - _finally_ \- capture Holmes' lips in a soft, sweet kiss.

Watson leaned back and opened his eyes. Holmes was looking between them, a smile finally overtaking his features. He reached out a hand to Watson, and he gripped it carefully, massaging it gently. "I was afraid for a moment I'd overdone it," Holmes admitted, somewhat sheepishly.

"You were amazing," Watson said honestly. He kissed the tips, watching as Holmes' mouth fell open slowly. "May I make a suggestion?" Watson asked casually. Lestrade turned his head and nuzzled Holmes' neck, causing him to start and groan slightly.

"What's that?" he asked thickly.

"Bed?"

Holmes shot him a grin before he quickly ushered them into the bedroom, guiding them both to the end of the bed. Watson reached to wrap his arms around him, but Holmes unbalanced him in a swift movement, and Watson tumbled to the bed, startled. He felt the bed dip beside him and turned to see an equally surprised-looking Lestrade looking at him. Holmes stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at them with hunger in his eyes. He licked his lips, and Watson shivered.

"Buttons," was all he said. They each scrambled for their shirts, but Holmes raised a hand to stop them. "Each other," he said.

They glanced at each other, unsure, but helped each other up until they were kneeling on the bed. Lestrade looked slightly nervous, but Watson smiled at him in what he hoped was a reassuring way and reached to undo his collar. Lestrade snapped into action and reached to do the same. Watson had made quick work of the first few buttons when a slight movement drew his attention. He turned his head to slightly, and from the corner of his eye he saw Holmes palming his cock lazily through his trousers. Watson smirked and slowed, carefully slipping each button through, running his fingers down freshly exposed skin. Lestrade hesitated, then slowed as well, running his fingers over Watson's abdomen experimentally. Watson shivered at the sheer heat of it; emboldened, Lestrade tugged Watson's shirt free and pushed it open. Watson did the same, running his fingers back down Lestrade's chest, groin tightening as Holmes' breathing quickened and Lestrade's fingers spasmed on his hips. He glanced at Holmes under lowered lashes and was rewarded with the sight of Holmes tugging at his flies impatiently. He slid a hand lower, cupping Lestrade's half-hard cock, pressing the rough fabric against hot skin and rubbing his thumb over the tip. Lestrade shifted as though he might pull away, nerves returning in full force. Watson leaned forward quickly and breathed in his ear, "Look."

Lestrade turned his head slightly and his breath caught in his throat. He felt Lestrade's cock swell under his hand and rubbed his palm over it, drawing a whimper from him. He turned his head as well to see Holmes had drawn himself from his trousers completely, hand ghosting gently over smooth skin. His own cock twitched at the sight; he shifted slightly and whimpered when the movement slid fabric over the sensitive head.

"Kiss," Holmes panted. Watson started, but Lestrade immediately slid a hand around his waist and tugged him closer. Somehow, knowing Holmes was watching them made it easier this time. Their lips met, gliding together slick and warm, and Holmes moaned aloud. Watson darted his tongue inside, sliding his free hand up to cup Lestrade's jaw. He pulled back slightly when he felt hands pulling at his flies. He looked down to see Holmes leaning over the edge of the bed, unfastening his pants. He glanced up at them. "Don't stop," he moaned, jerking his hips against the mattress. Watson leaned forward and sucked Lestrade's tongue into his mouth, groaning as the cool air hit his erection. His hand was forced away from Lestrade's trousers; a moment later Lestrade's eyes shot open and he moaned into his mouth as Holmes drew him from the confines of his pants. A hand closed around his own erection, stroking gently at first, then with more force. Holmes tugged them closer to each other, until the heads of their cocks were rubbing together with each stroke, sending shocks of pleasure down Watson's spine, precum mixing and running down their lengths.

His legs were shaking, the stimulation almost overwhelming. Holmes moved to kneel at the end of the bed, then, releasing them to gently guide them to lay next to each other. He stripped them of the rest of their clothing efficiently, then closed a hand around each of their erections, pumping slowly, firmly. Watson jerked his hips, trying to push into that firm grip, and Holmes stilled both hands with a smirk. Lestrade gasped out a choked curse and Watson forced himself to relax, nearly crying out when Holmes resumed his slow pace. He looked up at them again and raised his eyebrows; it was all the reminder he needed. Watson turned and drew Lestrade's mouth to his once more; lips clashing together in a desperate kiss. Holmes rewarded them with a squeeze and faster, harsher strokes, leaving them panting desperately into each others mouths. Their movements became frantic, messy; from the corner of his eye Watson saw Holmes lean over and press his tongue to the tip of Lestrade's cock. Lestrade convulsed, keening low in his throat as Holmes leaned back and thick streams of cum spurted onto his abdomen.

Watson only had a moment to recover from the sight before Holmes leaned over him and swallowed him down, tongue pressing on the underside of his cock. His vision went white and he tried to wrench his head away, but Lestrade held him firm with a hand on the back of his head, so he could do nothing but moan into Lestrade's mouth as his hips jerked, pouring into Holmes' waiting mouth. Lestrade finally loosened his hold and he leaned back, panting. Holmes gave him one final lick and jerked back. Watson watched as he straightened up, hand working furiously, eyes still hungrily taking in them spread out before him. Experimentally, Watson reached over and ran a finger through the rapidly cooling mess on Lestrade's abdomen; Holmes whimpered, eyes never leaving him as he drew the digit into his mouth, tongue swirling over the tip. Holmes let out a cry, spilling over his hand as shudders wracked his body.

They were still for a moment, Holmes will his eyes closed, Lestrade and Watson watching him, drinking in the sight: face flushed, clothing rumpled and askew, softening prick still gripped in his hand as he tried desperately to catch his breath. Finally, he opened his eyes and smiled at them, running his clean hand through his hair. He slipped off the bed wordlessly, padding out and to the wash room. Watson and Lestrade looked at each other awkwardly. Finally Lestrade took a deep breath and collapsed fully against the bed, slinging and arm over his eyes.

"That was unexpected," he said finally. Watson laughed, the tension dissolving as quickly as it came.

"Not entirely unpleasant," he offered, still chuckling. Lestrade smiled and sank farther back into the cushions.

"What _is_ it about that man?" Lestrade wondered aloud.

"I'm damnably charming," Holmes agreed as he re-entered the room holding a small basin of water and a rag. He had already wiped himself up and set his clothing to rights, leaving them both feeling briefly uncomfortable with their nudity. He sat on the edge of the bed and carefully wiped them clean, still smiling. Once he was finished he sat the water on the floor next to the bed and slid in between them, wrapping an arm around each of them. He hummed in self-satisfaction, and Watson poked him in the side playfully while Lestrade rolled his eyes comically.

"That was enjoyable," Holmes declared. "May I suggest a repeat performance, preferably in the near future?"

Lestrade pushed himself onto one elbow, looking down at them. "Perhaps," he said, "With one condition."

Holmes cocked his head. "Oh? What's that?"

"No more keeping us in the dark," Lestrade said. Watson nodded. Holmes looked crestfallen; Watson sighed and glanced at Lestrade.

"Fine, no keeping us in the dark when it's something of this magnitude," Watson suggested. Lestrade agreed, and Holmes beamed at them.

"Agreed," he said. He pulled them closer and leaned over to draw the blankets over them. Watson watched as their eyes closed, smiling sleepily. _Sometimes you don't get what you want,_ he thought as he drifted off. _Sometimes you get something better._


End file.
